Chapter 2 - The Woman Behind the Uniform
Sophie spent the next twelve minutes hoping Alessandro Moretti would leave before she had to speak with him.
He did not.
Maison Aurelia was beginning its slow descent from midnight elegance into controlled exhaustion. Guests requested cars. Servers cleared dessert plates. Bartenders polished crystal. Someone dimmed the chandelier nearest the entrance by ten percent, almost imperceptibly changing the room from dinner service to closing.
Alessandro remained at table twelve.
Camila had left.
That was the first thing Sophie noticed.
The second was that his two men were still there.
One stood near the bar, appearing to read something on his phone. The other waited near the front door.
Sophie finished closing one of her tables and deliberately took longer than necessary organizing the credit-card slips.
“You’re stalling,” Nina whispered.
“I’m working.”
“You’ve aligned those receipts three times.”
“They keep moving.”
“They’re paper.”
Sophie gave her a look.
Nina lowered her voice.
“You don’t have to go over there.”
“Yes, I do. Bellini told me to.”
“I meant you don’t have to go somewhere alone with him.”
That thought had occurred to Sophie too.
The stories surrounding Alessandro Moretti existed in that strange Manhattan territory between gossip and accepted fact. Newspapers described his family as “controversial.” Business magazines preferred “private investment dynasty.” People who had actually grown up in certain parts of Brooklyn used different words.
His father’s name had appeared in investigations for years without producing a conviction serious enough to collapse the empire.
Alessandro had inherited more than money.
Yet tonight he had done nothing threatening.
He had ordered wine.
He had asked questions.
And when Camila insulted Sophie, he had watched instead of joining her.
That did not make him safe.
It merely made him difficult to categorize.
Sophie carried a small tray to table twelve.
“The bottle was satisfactory?”
Alessandro looked up.
“It was better than the one I intended to order.”
“You sound disappointed.”
That faint half-smile returned.
“I’m not accustomed to enjoying being corrected.”
“I’m sure people rarely risk it.”
“Do you?”
“Apparently.”
He indicated the chair again.
This time Sophie remained standing without commenting on it.
“What did you want to ask me?”
Alessandro looked toward the other tables.
Most guests were gone.
“Why is someone who studied wine in France waiting tables in Manhattan?”
There it was.
The question Sophie hated.
Not because it was cruel.
Because people always asked it as if life followed a straight line for everyone else and Sophie had somehow wandered off hers through poor navigation.
“I work here,” she replied.
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
He studied her.
“You think I’m being insulting.”
“I think rich people sometimes mistake curiosity for permission.”
Instead of being offended, he seemed almost entertained.
“Fair.”
Sophie had not expected that.
She shifted the tray to her other hand.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
He reached for the leather wine list.
“Sit down.”
“I already told you—”
“You’re no longer serving my table.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to drink with customers.”
“I didn’t offer you a drink.”
Sophie stared at him.
He pushed the wine list toward the empty place.
“I want your opinion.”
She glanced toward Bellini.
The maître d’ was pretending not to watch.
Of course he was watching.
Sophie finally pulled out the chair.
She sat on the very edge of it.
Alessandro opened the book to a page containing the restaurant’s most expensive French selections.
“Which of these are actually worth their prices?”
Sophie blinked.
“You called me over for that?”
“Yes.”
“Most people spending this much don’t want to hear the answer.”
“I am not most people.”
“That sentence usually means the opposite.”
This time his smile appeared fully, though briefly.
It transformed his face.
He looked younger.
Almost normal.
Then the expression disappeared.
Sophie turned the pages.
“This one is overpriced because of the label. This one is excellent but too young. This one has a reputation built on three exceptional vintages and a great marketing department.”
Alessandro listened.
Actually listened.
No interruptions.
No glances at his phone.
When Sophie finished, his fingers tapped once against the table.
“My family owns an interest in this restaurant.”
She froze.
Of course they did.
That explained Bellini’s panic.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Is this the part where you tell me I offended the wrong customer?”
“No.”
“Then what part is it?”
“The part where I tell you our wine program is losing money.”
Sophie stared at him.
“Your wine program?”
“Maison Aurelia belongs to a hospitality group. I hold a controlling interest.”
“So you’re my boss.”
“Indirectly.”
“That somehow makes this conversation worse.”
“Why?”
“Because I just criticized half your cellar.”
“You criticized the list. There is a difference.”
He turned another page.
“We have rare bottles disappearing from inventory.”
Sophie’s expression changed.
“Disappearing?”
“According to the reports, they’re being sold.”
“But?”
“The revenue does not match the inventory.”
Sophie glanced toward the bar.
“Why tell me?”
“Because you found a bottle on a fourteen-page reserve list in seconds.”
“That doesn’t make me an accountant.”
“No. But it tells me you know what you’re looking at.”
She closed the book.
“Hire an auditor.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He found nothing.”
“Then either nothing is wrong or he was looking in the wrong place.”
Alessandro leaned forward slightly.
“Exactly.”
Sophie realized what he was doing.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked you anything.”
“You’re about to.”
A pause.
“I want you to look at the cellar records.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a waitress.”
“You were trained in wine.”
“Past tense.”
“Training does not vanish because you put on an apron.”
The sentence struck somewhere Sophie was not prepared to defend.
She looked away.
The windows beyond the restaurant were black and silver with rain.
Alessandro waited.
He seemed good at waiting.
Eventually Sophie said, “I studied hospitality management in Paris for a semester and spent another year working around Bordeaux and Lyon.”
“Sommelier training?”
“Part of it.”
“Certification?”
“Never finished.”
“Why?”
“Life.”
He waited for more.
She gave him nothing.
Then his gaze shifted to the skin beneath her eyes.
Tiredness.
Not weakness.
He seemed to recognize the difference.
“How much does Maison Aurelia pay you?”
Sophie’s eyes snapped back to him.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is literally my business.”
“That was terrible.”
“I know.”
Against her will, Sophie almost laughed.
Almost.
He leaned back.
“I’ll pay you separately to review the inventory.”
“No.”
“Triple your hourly rate.”
“No.”
“Five times.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I don’t want your money because you saw me win an argument with Camila Russo.”
His face cooled.
“That is not why I’m offering.”
“Then why?”
“Because I watched you identify a bottle faster than the sommelier I currently employ could have.”
“That’s an assumption.”
“I tested him last month.”
Sophie stared.
“He failed?”
“He recommended the highest-priced bottle.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s incompetent.”
“No. But when I asked why, he told me price reflected quality.”
Sophie winced.
Alessandro noticed.
“Exactly.”
She stood.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That is not a no.”
“It isn’t a yes either.”
He reached into his jacket.
Sophie stiffened.
He noticed that too.
Slowly, deliberately, Alessandro removed only a business card.
No dramatic black paper.
No embossed threat.
A simple name and number.
ALLESSANDRO MORETTI — MORETTI HOSPITALITY GROUP.
Sophie picked it up.
“One condition,” she said.
His eyebrow lifted.
“If I do this, I report what I find. You don’t tell me what you want me to find.”
“Agreed.”
“And I keep my regular schedule until I decide whether I trust you.”
His expression changed again.
Not offended.
Intrigued.
“You think I need your trust?”
“If you want honest work from me, yes.”
The silence between them lasted several seconds.
Then Alessandro nodded.
“Fair enough.”
Sophie turned to leave.
“What did Camila say to you in the service corridor?”
She stopped.
“How do you know she spoke to me?”
“I saw her follow you.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to know the conversation.”
“Did she threaten you?”
Sophie turned.
Something in Alessandro’s face had hardened.
There was no amusement now.
“She reminded me she has influence.”
“With whom?”
“People like you.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“Camila does not speak for me.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Sophie considered lying.
Then decided she was too tired.
“She said women like me mistake being noticed for mattering.”
For several seconds, Alessandro was unreadable.
Then he looked toward the door through which Camila had left.
“She should not have said that.”
“No, she shouldn’t.”
“Do you want me to speak with her?”
Sophie almost laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if every time someone insults me I need a powerful man to fix it, then she was right.”
That answer seemed to surprise him.
Sophie slipped the card into her apron pocket.
“Good night, Mr. Moretti.”
“Alessandro.”
“No.”
Now he did smile.
“Good night, Sophie.”
She walked away.
The next morning, she told herself she would throw the card out.
By noon, it was still in her wallet.
By Monday, it sat on her kitchen counter.
By Wednesday, her landlord slid a rent increase notice beneath her apartment door.
Life, as usual, had impeccable timing.
Sophie lived in a narrow apartment in Queens with a radiator that hissed at night and a kitchen window facing a brick wall. The space was small but clean. Every object had a purpose.
On one shelf sat three wine textbooks.
She had not opened them in almost two years.
Her phone rang while she was staring at them.
Her younger brother, Jamie.
“Hey.”
“You working?”
“Not until four.”
“How’s Mom?”
A pause.
That told her everything.
“She’s okay,” Jamie said too quickly.
Sophie closed her eyes.
Their mother had suffered a stroke two years earlier. She had recovered more than the doctors originally expected, but rehabilitation had taken time, money, and the kind of emotional energy nobody could calculate.
Sophie had returned from France because Jamie had still been in college.
One semester away from completing her certification became one year away.
Then two.
Then the dream became something she described in past tense.
“Did the insurance call?”
“They denied the additional therapy.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
Sophie stared at Alessandro’s card.
“How much?”
Jamie told her.
She said nothing.
“Sophie?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always do.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
After the call, Sophie sat at the kitchen table for nearly ten minutes.
Then she picked up the card.
She dialed.
Alessandro answered on the second ring.
“Moretti.”
She almost hung up.
Instead she said, “Five times my hourly rate.”
Silence.
Then:
“I thought you’d call tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Pride usually takes four days. Yours took three.”
Sophie looked at the ceiling.
“I’m already regretting this.”
“When can you start?”
“Tonight after closing.”
“Good.”
“And Alessandro?”
“Yes?”
“This doesn’t make us friends.”
“I didn’t think it did.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“What does it make us?” he asked.
Sophie looked at the rain beginning against her window.
“Temporary coworkers.”
She could hear the smile in his voice.
“For now.”
That night, shortly after one in the morning, Alessandro took Sophie down the narrow staircase beneath Maison Aurelia.
The public restaurant disappeared above them.
The cellar below was colder, darker, and far larger than she expected.
Hundreds of bottles rested behind temperature-controlled glass.
Some were worth hundreds.
Others thousands.
A few were worth more than the building where Sophie’s mother received therapy.
Alessandro gave her the inventory sheets.
“I want to know what’s missing.”
Sophie began walking slowly through the racks.
She checked vintages.
Producers.
Numbers.
At first nothing seemed unusual.
Then, near the back of the cellar, she stopped.
“What?”
Alessandro stood several feet behind her.
Sophie leaned closer to one bottle.
Then another.
Her pulse quickened.
“Who receives your deliveries?”
“Bellini signs for most of them.”
“The maître d’?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Camila occasionally arranges acquisitions through her family’s auction contacts.”
Sophie turned.
“You didn’t think that was relevant?”
“To disappearing bottles?”
“Yes.”
She pointed toward the shelf.
“Because your problem may not be that bottles are disappearing.”
Alessandro approached.
Sophie lifted one carefully.
The label read Château Lafite Rothschild.
An extraordinary vintage.
A bottle worth a fortune.
“What is it?” Alessandro asked.
Sophie studied the glass.
“The bottle is real.”
“So?”
She held it under the cellar light.
“The wine probably isn’t.”
His expression went still.
“You’re certain?”
“No.”
Sophie looked across the rows.
“But I know how to become certain.”
Footsteps sounded on the staircase behind them.
Both turned.
The cellar door opened.
Mr. Bellini stood there.
He looked at Sophie.
May you like
Then at the bottle in her hands.
And all the color left his face.
